It wouldn’t be for lack of trying, Bess thought as she made sympathetic noises.
‘Had he been but a little later returning today it wouldn’t have happened,’ said the other.
‘Aye.’ Bart nodded. ‘Hal’s right. He came just before those cursed scholars. Pampered pets.’
Hal winced at his friend’s words. ‘I don’t think we can really blame them,’ he said. ‘Drogo didn’t look right when he walked up to me. He was rubbing his eyes like he couldn’t see clear. I think there was blood on his hands. He asked me for some water. By the time I fetched it, he was in the river.’ He crossed himself.
‘Blood on his hands?’ Bess thought that significant. ‘But you aren’t certain?’
Hal held up his own hands. ‘We can never get off all the pitch or the river filth.’
It looked as if all the creases on his hands were picked out in black, as well as the greater part of the joints. ‘I see,’ said Bess.
‘Those scholars are still the ones pushed him in,’ Bart growled.
‘We don’t know that,’ Hal maintained. ‘If Drogo was sickening, a nudge might have sent him in, the barges were rocking so with all the folk moving about. I’m not easy blaming the lads.’
Bart grunted.
‘What if someone in the city is after bargemen, and not just Drogo?’ Hal added, frowning down at his tankard, then up at Bart.
‘Why would that be?’ Bess asked.
Hal shrugged. ‘Why Drogo?’
Bart snorted. ‘That’s what makes it plain the scholars did it. They’re angry about his keeping the scrip. He was a fool to do that. Why would he think the lad carried anything of worth in it?’
‘Because he carried it with him that day?’ The words were out before Bess knew it. But if she did say so herself, it was unusual for a lad to go about wearing a scrip.
Hal held her gaze. ‘I’d not thought of that. But now you mention it, it is odd.’
‘If I have any more thoughts, I’ll let you know,’ said Bess. She leaned down to Hal and added in a low voice, ‘Watch your friend. I want no rowdiness tonight. Folk need to feel safe here.’
‘I’ll clear him out soon,’ Hal promised. ‘He’ll not wake happy as it is.’
As Bess moved on she tucked away the fact that Drogo had been thirsty and perhaps bleeding already when he’d arrived at the staithe, and the question of what Hubert de Weston had carried in his scrip. She could not follow the idea now for she needed full use of her wits to keep tab of how much of what folk were eating and drinking. Tragedy was good for business, as ever.
A man moved out from the shadows, blocking Owen’s access to the abbey infirmary. Owen cursed silently; when he’d entered the abbey grounds through the postern gate he’d thought he was alone. Drawing out his dagger — for it might be the would-be murderer intent on finishing his work, Owen called out, ‘Who goes there?’
The man moved closer so that Owen could see his hawk-nosed face. ‘It’s George Hempe.’
Relieved, Owen said, ‘I’m glad you’re here.’ Hempe was a city bailiff, and the very one Owen would have sent for. He’d disliked Hempe until they had been thrown together in an investigation the previous year and he’d learned that the man’s intentions were good despite his stubborn and brusque manner, that he earnestly wished to bring criminals to justice. Bailiffs usually saw their duties as keeping the immediate peace, not preventing future trouble. Hempe was not so short-sighted.
‘Have you seen the pilot?’ Owen asked.
‘I had a glimpse of him as they carried him into the abbey grounds. But that is all. I’m not as welcome in here as you are. I can tell you he looked near death.’
‘How could you not be welcome? Were you not sent for?’
Hempe laughed. ‘I was, yes, but as soon as he saw me Abbot Campian made certain I understood that the man had fallen from the abbey staithe, not the city staithe, though it was possible he’d been attacked in the city. I’d been called upon to keep the peace among the city folk, not to interfere in abbey concerns. He sent for you as well?’
‘Yes. I might have avoided it, but my son Jasper was in the crowd of scholars at the staithe.’
‘Has Jasper an explanation of what happened?’
Owen was shaking his head as they came upon the outcast of the evening, Nicholas Ferriby.
‘Captain Archer, Master Bailiff, I must speak with you.’ The schoolmaster’s deep voice trembled. ‘I am condemned of a crime that did not happen.’
‘Calm yourself,’ said Owen. ‘From what I’ve heard you did nothing wrong tonight.’
‘But the crowd out on Marygate,’ Nicholas gestured towards the abbey gate, ‘they accused me. Their voices were so angry. I wasn’t at the barges, Captain. I don’t know why they would even connect me with that man.’ He paused to catch his breath.
‘You are safe here in the abbey grounds,’ said Hempe.
Owen was impatient to move on, but he could imagine how unsettled the man must feel. ‘Some quiet prayer in the abbey church will calm you, Master Nicholas. Now I fear I must leave you. I’ve been summoned to the infirmary.’
‘Why?’ Nicholas asked.
‘To see Drogo’s wounds.’
‘The wounds — they complicate the story,’ said Hempe, considering Master Nicholas. ‘You swear you had not been seen with Drogo earlier in the afternoon?’
‘I swear!’ Nicholas cried, then groaned. ‘Even you?’
‘You are not in danger here,’ said Owen, shaking his head at Hempe to quiet him. He had no time to calm the schoolmaster. ‘Abide in the hospitium tonight, Master Nicholas.’
‘By morning the crowd will have forgotten you,’ said Hempe.
‘I pray you are right,’ said Nicholas. ‘But what if the man dies?’
‘Then we have much work to do,’ said Owen. ‘I must pass now.’
The schoolmaster stepped aside. ‘I shall go pray for his recovery.’
‘And I’ll see that the crowd has dispersed,’ said Hempe.
Inside the warmly lit infirmary, Owen found Brother Henry bent over an ailing monk, and he left him in peace for a moment. Scanning the room for Drogo, he was startled by memories. The hanging herbs, tidy rows of pallets, indeed the smell of the room reminded him of many visits with Brother Wulfstan. Owen had seldom come here since his friend’s death three years earlier. Brother Henry was capable, but not gifted like his predecessor; neither Lucie nor Owen came to him for advice.
‘Drogo lies over near the brazier,’ Henry softly called out.
Owen pulled himself back into the present and noticed the man now, or the shape of him beneath the blanket. Henry joined him.
‘He is dead?’ Owen asked.
Henry nodded and then crossed himself. ‘He died just a little while ago. I waited to move him to a more public place until you’d seen him.’
‘Did he ever wake?’
‘No. He made mewling sounds towards the end, as if in pain but too weak to cry out.’
‘That doesn’t sound like drowning,’ Owen said. ‘But a poisoned blade — that is no sudden quarrel but deliberate murder.’
Henry bowed his head and crossed himself. ‘The devil is loose in the city.’
‘The method is only too human,’ said Owen. ‘Let me see him.’
Henry uncovered Drogo’s head, then drew back the blanket to expose his right hand. The skin on his face already looked waxy and slightly grey, though around the cuts it was much darker and there was a trace of crust that did not look like a scab. It was too small a sample for either Owen or Lucie to detect the presence of poison, too little to smell or taste.
‘He tried to protect his face,’ Owen noted.
Henry nodded. ‘That is what I thought. The slits must have stung, but I wouldn’t think they were terribly painful. I suppose that’s why he went to the barges and not home to clean the wounds. What do you think?’